


Counting On Forever

by Jakathine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Heavy Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Tears, alternate universe-no mary morstan, post series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Jakathine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sherllamalock prompted:<br/>((Army!john)) Sherlock and John are married and Sherlock gets a letter that tells him John has been killed in combat. He attends the funeral and is the last one standing there at the casket. (Inspired by "Just A Dream" by Carrie Underwood)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Counting On Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Sherllamalock prompted:  
> ((Army!john)) Sherlock and John are married and Sherlock gets a letter that tells him John has been killed in combat. He attends the funeral and is the last one standing there at the casket. (Inspired by "Just A Dream" by Carrie Underwood)

The day had started like any other. Sherlock was running case after case and this morning had been no different, with a text from Lestrade informing him that a waiter's dead body had been found in a garage. Sherlock slid the phone into his pocket and fiddled with the silver band around his left ring finger.

After he had returned from two years of "death" John had been so angry, so resistant to Sherlock and any attempts at reconnecting. It had taken Sherlock two full years to earn back John's trust. From there, heart in his throat, Sherlock asked of John a request that had been pressed into his mind since he had been captured in Russia. It had been a slightly chilly January the 29th, an anniversary of their meeting, when Sherlock discreetly lead John towards the park where Stamford had first mentioned the detective. It was there at that park that Sherlock dropped to one knee and proposed to John. John had been so shocked, Sherlock recounted with a smile. Since then the two were happy. 

Tension had flared when John had decided to re-enlist in the army. Sherlock had felt slightly betrayed at being left in such a way but assured John that he would wait. His only request to receive letters that way the two could stay in touch. John agreed and sealed his promise with a kiss.

Every month or so letters came. Sherlock had cleared out an entire drawer in their room to be devoted just to these letters to keep them protected. The paper carried the scent of sweat and dirt and  _John._ On nights when Sherlock could not sleep at all, he read those letters, sometimes aloud, and they always comforted him.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head, knowing he needed to concentrate once more as his duty as Consulting Detective for the increasing impatient Chief Inspector awaiting him. With a quick glance around his beloved flat, Sherlock donned his Belstaff, scarf, and deerstalker. He quirked it to the side a bit but continued to smile all the same, knowing that had John been there the man would have been beaming.

The monthly letter was supposed to have arrived by the time Sherlock came back home that night but Mrs. Hudson said there was nothing for Sherlock in the postage. The same occurred for another week and half. Sherlock became nervous, knowing that this tardiness was unlike John. He attempted to bury his qualms in work, focusing instead on triple homicides and a few shammed heists instead of his twisting nerves.

A full two weeks later since the letter was supposed to have arrived Sherlock heard the bell ring. It was too long to be that of a client but too firm to be that of a nervous passerby needing to ask for directions. Exhausted from laying awake the entire night, Sherlock stumbled down the stairs, adjusting his blue housecoat and then tying it around himself before answering the door.

To his horror he saw a sharply dressed military man standing before him, face set but eyes filled with a type of grief that could only come across by one circumstance. Sherlock's mouth went dry and he barely managed to squeeze out:

"Come in, please." to the man before slowly receding into the flat.

The soldier stepped in and withdrew from his breast pocket two letters. One was crisp, clean, and sealed neatly with an official army seal. The other letter was dirty, splashed with what appeared to be mud and, to Sherlock's dawning horror, blood. The soldier handed him the letters and stood at parade's stance while carefully watching Sherlock open the clean letter first. Sherlock knew what it could only mean.

_"Dear Sherlock Holmes,_

_It is with deep regret that I report to you the death of Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. His actions were that of honor and valor and saved many lives.This tragedy has removed from the world a man that was loving son, brother, and husband._

_Captain Watson had been assigned to an active terrorist and rebel zone within Afghanistan, with his Fusiliers being the rallying force that stood betwixt the enemy and the people with whom his faction were to protect. It was during this time that Captain Watson, upon seeing a road-side bomb explode and injure twelve civilians and killing four others, took lead in a recovery group to gather the injured for medical care._

_The civilians were transported to safety but a bomb that had been planted within an abandoned car near by exploded as he was retreating, sending shrapnel into his spine and severing usage of his legs. His fellow comrades took him back to base for immediate care but his wounds proved too severe to safe his life._

_We of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers are proud to have served with such a man as Captain Watson._

_Sincerely,_

_Commanding Officer Jacob Haflin"_

Scrawled beneath the printed name was the Commander's signature. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, already feeling hot tears stinging his eyes as he folded the letter and put it back into the envelope and pulling out a smaller notecard-sized piece of paper that had the date and time of when John's funeral would be held with honor and full military recognition of dying in line of duty.

The soldier who had brought the letters looked at Sherlock sadly and stepped away from his pose to put a gentle hand on the man's shoulder in silent apology before turning to the door and exiting. Mrs. Hudson arrived within minutes to find Sherlock curled up at the base of the stairs, tears and mucus running down his face while he cried until there were no more tears.

The funeral came too quickly. Sherlock had not adjusted to the onrush of depression and emptiness whatsoever and the pouring ran did not aid matters. Lestrade and Stamford as well as Mrs. Hudson, Molly, John's parents and sister, and Sherlock's parents and brother attended John's funeral. The salutes were in order and carried out despite the rain and the priest said his blessings while the few gathered remained silent.

Towards the end, the priest left the make-shift pulpit for others to talk about the deceased. John's parents were too much in tears to make a speech but John's sister, Harry, stood briefly to say that despite the many arguments between her and her brother they were still family and that he would be missed greatly. Lestrade recollected the day he had met the courageous little man who was tough as nails and had decided to have Sherlock for a companion. Mrs. Hudson, through tears and slight hiccups, recounted days of Sherlock and John having sheer joy from a case or just being with one another and how the two of them seemed like sons to her. It was all she could do to sit back down next to Lestrade, who wrapped a comforting arm around her. Molly solemnly spoke of John, commenting that he was a great man and even greater soldier and that she was proud of him. That she would always be proud of him. Sherlock's parents did not say anything nor did Mycroft but Sherlock was fine with either of those cases for now the eyes shifted to him as he walked up to the pulpit and idly touched the white lily that had been propped at the top.

After a few calming breaths, Sherlock was composed enough to say his speech, albeit he had to start over upon the rain crashing down harder on the tent's top.

"John Watson." Sherlock started, letting the name pass his lips slowly, "He was the most...loving, caring, and wonderful man I could ever meet. He was brilliant, utterly brilliant, and the wisest man anyone has ever seen." Sherlock shifted, fighting down the urge to simply bolt, "He was a dear son, brother, friend, and husband." he stated, looking at John's family, their friends, and lastly down at the wood of the pulpit and the cards splayed there for him to read.

"I do not know much of religion." Sherlock continued, his eyes glistening with tears, "But I do know that if such a thing as Heaven exists then John would be in the forefront to deserve such a place. He is--was-- truly a man whom we all admired and we will greatly miss."

Tears started to freely fall as Sherlock lowered his eyes onto the sturdy oak casket. He walked over to it and laid a hand near the ring of white lilies and forget-me-nots as the priest called for a closing prayer. All lowered their heads and Sherlock drowned out of the prayer, his eyes still affixed to the lid of the casket, thinking of how just under this ring of flowers John lay still in death, never to return.

He was faintly aware of hugs hesitantly given to his still side and reassuring rubs and pats on his back. The rain was thunderous now, causing puddles to swell dangerously and making Sherlock think with how often John had taken care of him when he had caught the flue or pneumonia when attempting to solve a case during such climatic weather. The arguments that had ensued followed by the loving kisses that soothed more than just Sherlock’s ruffled ego. Warm embraces and gentle touches ghosted in Sherlock's memory. The sounds of John's laughter and the twinkle of his green-toned eyes when discovering something delighting or flirtatiously teasing played in Sherlock’s memory.

Everyone save Mrs. Hudson has left and she awaited in the car, knowing that Sherlock needed time. Sherlock stood and adjusted his suit and touched the silver band on his finger once more before turning and climbing into the car with Mrs. Hudson. 

Wordlessly, she patted his hand and started the car before the two made the quiet drive back home to Baker Street.

 


End file.
